


if you steal away everything

by retts



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (but with a happy ending cause it's me), Angst, Feelings, M/M, One True Pairing, Vague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:31:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retts/pseuds/retts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s half past ten in the evening and Liam is boiling water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you steal away everything

**Author's Note:**

> So I don't know what this is. The broken formatting is done on purpose so don't call me out on it (haha creative license is the best excuse to be weird) and this is the second fic with ANGST on the forefront of my mind. It's not even very angsty? And it doesn't make sense? And it's the first long-ish thing I've written in months, so I am rather indulgent.

 

 

 

 

it’s half past ten in the evening and liam is boiling water. he sits on the breakfast bar, playing with the bright blue pepper shaker 

(35 quid at some arts market zayn dragged him to once, twice, half a dozen times)

as he stares at the electric hob. there’s no fire but heat is still produced, causing the water inside the bright red kettle

(they recently bought off _fancy_ for 110.5 pounds)

to boil. something about the surface temperature being hotter than the fluid temperature

(as zayn explained to him before on a different night; or tried to, only liam had kissed him to shut him up because although liam loves that zayn is smart as fuck, he didn’t need to know _how_ the water boiled, just that it did so he could have his tea – which, consequently, had steeped longer than the six minutes he prefers and ruined the taste)

and liam wonders how hot the hob is now, imagines laying his palm flat on the surface as he tosses the pepper shaker from hand to hand. it has to burn, has to eat away at the tender flesh of his hand no matter how rough the calluses

(that zayn loves, especially at the tender space on the inside of his thigh or the back of his knee or the dip of his lower back).

nothing like a scalding when one touches a hot surface accidentally but a torturous burning that blisters, that sends a shock to the centre of liam’s brain –

(like when zayn smiles) - 

the sharp hiss of the kettle startles liam out of his thoughts and he drops the pepper shaker on the bar as he hops down. there’s a white mug still unwashed on the sink and usually that’s something that he and zayn can’t tolerate, but there it sits, soiled from andy’s mouth. andy isn’t here, though, neither is zayn, and liam just can’t be bothered. not tonight. he grabs his mug, the one with _‘LIAM’_ in batman font scrawled on the sleek black surface

(a gift done by hands with flecks of yellow paint still under the fingernails: priceless)

and warms it up with a slosh of steaming water from the kettle before dumping it down the sink. he drops the teabag in, pours water, and after reaching inside the fridge for the milk carton, adds in an inch and a half of milk. sugar is for heathens. he puts back the kettle and the milk in their respective places and waits for six minutes. 

without anything to do, liam brings his hand up and his teeth catch on the rim of his thumbnail. his tongue flicks against the pad of his thumb and liam brings the digit deeper into his mouth. it’s almost like thumb-sucking, almost like an infant-comfort thing.

(sometimes, when liam is feeling insignificant, zayn will let liam suck and nibble on his thumb. there isn’t anything sexual about it. all it does is make liam feel small and protected in the best of ways, zayn curled around him and rubbing the back of his skull in soothing circles.)

he’s made his tea a million and one times before so it’s like he has an instinctive grasp of when six minutes have gone by. he carefully pulls out the teabag and throws it in the nearby bin. liam takes the mug in both hands and has a sip. it’s the perfect temperature and taste, and even the smell is pure comfort. liam takes another drink as he wanders to the lounge. his eyes automatically flicker to where the bright green puzzle clock hangs on the wall. eleven pm.

that’s nearly twenty four hours then.

and it’s not like he and zayn are attached at the hip, sown at the heart, glued by the lips. they fight, it’s what couples do, but the problem is that they can’t fight properly. they can’t scream because someone with a recorder might hear. they can’t slam doors because a creeping fan might see. they can’t cool off with a walk because a pap might shove cameras in their tear-strained faces. and they can’t talk it out because they’re the sorts to swallow their words, keep their hands to themselves, and hurt in secret.

but this time

(zayn had tried to reach for liam, catch liam’s gaze, tell him but liam had shouted accusations, slammed the door, ran away in frustration and fear)

is different. zayn hasn’t been in liam’s flat for a day and already it’s bleached of life. there’s a lack of colour that comes from zayn leaving splashes of red and blue and green and pink and purple where he rests his hands, his feet, his body curled on liam’s lap, and his lips on the side of liam’s neck. liam’s tea tastes of home but nothing _feels_ more like home when liam is drowning in zayn’s eyes.

he downs the rest of his tea, goes back into the kitchen to wash it and place it beside zayn’s green lantern mug

(bought off amazon so there’s a pricetag, but zayn had kissed him like it was just as priceless)

before he grabs his hoodie from the back of the sofa and slips his feet into a pair of boots by the door. liam sends zayn a text and leaves his phone on the side table. it’s raining heavily when liam strides out of the building door, waving a distracted hand at the bemused doorman. liam pulls up the  hood over his head but he’s more than damp in seconds.   

doesn’t matter. rain shouldn’t stop him, unlike the voices in his head. liam ducks his head and walks towards zayn’s flat, which isn’t that far.

the rain falls fast and thick, and the wind adds a chill. his boots kick at puddles on the pavement and there’s not another soul out tonight.

liam licks his wet lips

(tastes flat water)

and his gaze flicks up as he swipes the back of his hand across his eyes.

there’s zayn, suddenly, paused in the act of taking a step forward. he’s wearing one of liam’s jackets

(despite the torrent, liam can still tell the loose fit of it on zayn’s slender frame from the countless times he’s dressed and undressed zayn before)

and he looks as miserable as liam feels. liam blinks away the rain, swallows around the sudden lump in his throat.

it’s liam who moves forward, wrapping his arms around zayn and holding him close. half a heartbeat later, zayn hugs him back. they let the rain fall around them almost noiselessly because the only sound liam can hear is the drumbeat of his own heart until zayn’s desperate gasp reaches his ears.

‘i’m sorry,’ mumbles liam around a mouthful of regret and rain, burying his face into zayn’s neck and inhaling the damp smoky city-rain scent of him. ‘it’s my fault. i was coming for you. sorry, completely my fault. you shouldn’t have – ’

zayn grips the back of liam’s neck tighter. liam can feel zayn’s chest expand and fall with exaggeration: zayn is taking in the smell of him too. a pang goes through liam, settles right inside his ribcage.

‘it’s okay, li,’ says zayn softly, ‘i wanted to meet you halfway.’

no, it’s not okay, far from it, but liam reckons he ought to start listening to zayn again. that everything got fucked when liam began listening to other people, when the only person whose words are worth more than gold is the one who has an endless supply of them but uses them wisely, who knows exactly what to say to make liam feel better

(or worse).

the rain grows steadily heavier and they are soaked to the bone, but what liam feels most is the press of zayn against him. soon zayn is nudging them forward in the direction of liam’s flat, and they walk in a strange tangle of needy limbs refusing to unlock. finally they make it to the building, the doorman looking pointedly away as he opens the door. liam plays with zayn’s ear on the lift ride up, both of them staring at each other. zayn reaches up and knows which are tears to wipe away and which are raindrops to lick. liam sighs and drags his rough hand across the small of zayn’s back.

the door is unlocked and they step inside, zayn throwing a disapproving frown at liam.

‘i was in a hurry,’ says liam, giving zayn’s hand a squeeze. he hesitates, wanting to kiss zayn, and zayn gives him a heartbreaking look when he notices, so liam drags him in and snogs away the pout on zayn’s lips. ‘still want to be mine?’ teases liam, finding his equilibrium in the shape of zayn’s brilliant smile.

‘of course, always,’ says zayn, not even bothering to play coy.

it should bother him that a small puddle is forming around their feet. liam brushes their noses together. the tip of zayn’s nose is cold. ‘i’ll make you a cuppa.’

immediately, zayn says, ‘i’ll fetch us some dry clothes.’

they kiss again, lingering, until a tickle in liam’s nose makes him step away, face scrunching up. a second later, he sneezes. zayn bites his lower lip in obvious amusement.

he gives liam a playful shove. ‘you, kitchen, me, bedroom.’

‘can’t we both be in the bedroom?’ liam grins at him over his shoulder. his smile falters when he sees how damp and bedraggled zayn looks but his _eyes_

(it’s really the eyes that liam noticed first: big and inky and scared as they watch the judges on stage hand out dreams to those who can prove their worth, who can sing)

are warm and tender, which they only get for liam. he sucks in a shaky breath before blowing zayn a silly air kiss that cracks zayn up. the sound follows liam into the kitchen, but the sight of the unwashed mug makes him pause. andy isn’t here anymore, had left with the banging of doors and the end of friendships. andy with the toothy grins and bad judgment, the smell of lagers from pubs back home. liam misses him suddenly, fiercely, and wants to ring his mum to ring andy’s mum, like they’re back in school and liam had done something that annoyed andy.

but it’s zayn who is here now, with his colourful kettle and pepper shaker and clock and the mural on one side of liam’s bedroom wall.

so liam rinses the white mug and puts it back in the cupboard for family and friends because nothing stays broken forever if even just one of them wants to fix things.

then liam switches on the hob, reheats the water in the kettle, and prepares tea

(with sugar, the uncultured tit)

for zayn.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated, even feedback you keep to yourself ;P


End file.
